


Amore

by heenimlee (orphan_account)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, Vers Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun, Vers Lee Taeyong, it's Erik Satie's fault, there are lots of feelings here, there's half a plot if you squint, there's lots of kissing though, they're both getting fucked how else do I say this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/heenimlee
Summary: Taeyong is a ceramist and Jaehyun is clay in his hands.
Relationships: Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 22
Kudos: 158





	Amore

**Author's Note:**

> The ceramist Taeyong - teacher Jaehyun fic that nobody asked for :D  
> The title is from Amore by Ryuichi Sakamoto. You could try listening to it, and Erik Satie's Gymnopedies and Gnossiennes 1, 2, 3, and 5 when you're reading. That's where all the feelings came from, blame Erik Satie for this. You can definitely skip Gnossienne no 4 pls it gives me anxiety I don't want to do that to you

Jaehyun’s watching him work. Legs crossed, palms resting on his knee, leaning back in his straight backed wooden chair against the wall in Taeyong’s studio. The window’s open, a cool breeze heavy with the smell of wet earth from evening rain drifts in. The bristles of the brushes in the cup on his table, the thin plastic sheet that covers the wood, the loose pages he drew his rough sketches on, even Taeyong’s shirt flutters in the path of that breeze. Daylight is fading. He’ll stop working soon.

Taeyong sits in his work shirt and tattered old jeans, the wheel between his parted thighs, bare feet on the stained wooden floor and the pedal. His hair is cropped shorter than he ever saw it in high school. Jaehyun likes this. He can see the strong shape of his eyebrows, the way his brow creases when he’s focusing. He wants to follow his gaze down to his hands, but he gets stuck on the shape of his mouth, then on the way his Adam’s apple lifts and falls when he swallows.

There’s no sound but the steady hum of the wheel motor, the slip of clay under Taeyong’s hands, a break, the crystalline sound when he dips his hand in the basin full of cloudy water and takes it back to the clay. He’s centering it. He taught him that last time. Smacks a ball of clay artlessly down on his wheel head, gets it all slippery under wet palms, then draws it up in a cone, then urges it down on itself. Mesmerising, the way he draws it up tall, cups his palm against it and it shrinks, obedient, pliant. White clay, and the easy slip of hands against it, surging up and plunging down, his mastery over it.

Last time he sat and watched him work he looked so fascinated by this that Taeyong smiled all crooked and told him that wasn’t even the cool part. 

In his steady hold, between the long fingers of his right hand held out flat, and the knuckles of his left hand pressing out from within the mouth of the pot, the clay slips and slides and thins and rises, beautified and made delicate. That’s his first pull.

On and on, the hum of the wheel and the wet sound of his hands, the little tinkling bell sound of water. A second pull, and then a third. 

His gaze lifts for a fraction of a second and he catches Jaehyun’s eye, but he can’t be distracted now, he looks back at his work. 

Jaehyun can’t help that he’s left a little breathless in the wake of that moment. He shifts quietly in his chair, his neck warm. He uncrosses his legs and straightens his back, his toes curling against the wooden floor. There’s criss crossing lines and dollops of dried glaze under his bare feet. From the time he tried to do it like Lee Kang Hyo, he said. He has no idea what that means.

He leans forward, now, elbows on his thighs and fingers interlinked. He’s looking at Taeyong’s hands, strong and beautiful, the way soft clay mixes with all that water and forms a thick slip, gathers between his fingers, over the backs of his knuckles, over his wrist and in long licks up his forearm. His hands are so lovely against that unblemished white. Jaehyun breathes out slow, swallows thickly. He’s feeling that telltale dip in his stomach, that flush of arousal, and he’s not even sorry.

Even as he’s watching, he’s given it an elegant form. A graceful curve, and then quick, calculated movements to narrow the mouth, to clean up the edges. He’s done. A wire through the base, and his foot lifts off the pedal. The wheel stops spinning. His creation cupped gently between his palms and lifted from the wheel head to be placed carefully on his drying rack. 

Jaehyun gets to his feet at the same time as Taeyong does, and he crosses the small distance between them. Taeyong’s looking at him, his eyebrows raised slightly, and that makes his eyes rounder, more doe like than ever, and he smiles. Not a word has been spoken since he came in and took his place in the chair three feet from Taeyong.

He takes Taeyong’s wrists in his hands, and the clay is cold, slippery on his skin. The sink is all the way at the other end of the room, but there’s a basin of water set atop his table, just a step away. He tangles their fingers together, and he leads him to it. Deliberate when he dips their hands into the water. Gentle, when he slips his hand free only to work the clay off Taeyong’s hands. His thumbs running over his knuckles, the pads of his fingers over his palms, careful ministrations to clean it all off his fingertips, and still, they haven’t spoken. Taeyong’s still looking at him with doe eyes, and now with that crooked smile. 

The clay is washed off now, the water’s gone turbid, and he draws their hands back out. 

Taeyong doesn’t waste a single second. He runs his fingertips up Jaehyun’s jaw, thumbs resting on his chin, and he tips his face down to meet his. Turns Jaehyun’s waiting mouth against his, and they kiss like two drops of water coalescing. Wet, the slip of his hands down the unblemished white of Jaehyun’s neck, the fingers splaying over his shoulders and nape. 

Taeyong’s kissing him, warm, wet, and Jaehyun was waiting for this all week. Hands on his waist, aching for him. He’s unbuckling Jaehyun’s belt, and Jaehyun smiles against his lips. He doesn’t preface these things with the usual hesitation, with the bashfulness he’s come to know in all his partners through the years. He’s just about managed to back him up against the table and he’s pushing Jaehyun’s slacks and underwear down his thighs. He’s always sure of what he wants. He breaks their kiss, and Jaehyun wants to chase his lips but Taeyong’s sinking to his knees, his lovely hand wrapped loosely around him, stroking, another gripping the pale column of his thigh. The skin dimples where his fingers press in. 

Jaehyun’s head tips back involuntarily, and his eyes flutter shut when he feels the warmth of Taeyong’s mouth around his length. Half hard before he even touched him, dripping now that he’s in Taeyong’s mouth. He grips the edge of the table behind him, and when that’s not enough, he slides his fingers into Taeyong’s hair, curls a fist in it, but it’s too short to grasp the way he wants. He leaves it there, to better feel how he moves, how he surges up, lips around the head, then plunges down, hilt deep, up and down over and over. Jaehyun opens his eyes to watch him. His neck is pink. His palms are pink. The soles of his feet, too, petal pink. Taeyong’s gaze lifts, he looks up at him, brief, a fraction of a second, and then lowers his gaze again. Tease.

Taeyong decides he’s had enough. 

He’s on his feet again, kissing him again, mouth bitter with the taste of Jaehyun. Jaehyun’s hands have found Taeyong’s waist, and Taeyong’s hands are under his sweater, the hem draped over both of his wrists when he lays his palms on Jaehyun’s skin and traces his form up to his chest, his shoulders. Jaehyun takes the hint, tugs it over his head and lets it fall to the floor. Taeyong is looking at him. He likes looking at him. 

He’s undressed him all the way now, pressed against the whole length of his body, arms around his waist, Taeyong’s cheek against his shoulder. Taeyong smiles, puts his feet on Jaehyun’s, and Jaehyun laughs softly. That’s such a Taeyong thing to do. 

Jaehyun is made pliant in his hands. Passive, awaiting instruction. He’ll only meet him as forceful as he’s met, hold him the way he’s held, let him subjugate him, only to rise beautified and brought to life by his hands. 

He wraps his arms around Taeyong, nuzzles against Taeyong’s hair. It’s always fragrant. Taeyong’s jeans are rough against his legs, his shirt soft against his torso, sleeves wet at the cuffs. 

Jaehyun has walked the both of them to the mattress that occupies a corner of the room. Clumsy and smiling, because Taeyong has kept his feet resolutely on top of Jaehyun’s. 

When he’s laid out on the sheets, Taeyong turns him over onto his belly. Jaehyun’s doesn’t resist. His face buried in those soft sheets, always clean, always smelling like detergent and Taeyong. 

There are kisses all over his back, meandering, and his hand grips Jaehyun’s thigh, pushes it up till his torso lies twisted and he lies open for him. The quiet sound of a plastic cap popping open, the wet sound of him slicking up his fingers and the brush of his lips on Jaehyun’s thigh, palm splayed on his lower back, one finger, gentle and slow, knuckle deep, first pull. Jaehyun sighs, lays his head on his forearm. 

Two fingers. Jaehyun needs a kiss. He doesn’t have to say it, Taeyong’s found his lips. He kisses him sweetly, and before he can pull away, Jaehyun presses his lips to the bridge of Taeyong’s nose. Taeyong hums. Palm sliding over the corded muscle of Jaehyun’s back. Second pull.

Three fingers, fingers slicked again, his final pull. Jaehyun shudders, and Taeyong peppers his shoulders with kisses, his hand gripping the back of Jaehyun’s neck. His weight is on him like this, Jaehyun’s cheek pressed to the mattress. Steady.

Taeyong’s fingers slip out, and moments pass, he waits, empty, waits for him. The head of his length presses against him, unrelenting, and Taeyong lets slip a low whine when he’s swallowed up in Jaehyun’s body. Jaehyun tangles their hands together and brings Taeyong’s knuckles to his lips. Kisses and stuttering breaths on Taeyong’s skin. Taeyong presses his mouth to the shell of Jaehyun’s ear. 

They haven’t spoken a word, yet. The only sound the low hum of the generator, the wet slip where their bodies are joined, Taeyong’s breath against his ear. He shifts, presses his lips against Jaehyun’s cheek, now, nuzzles his whole face against his cheek. Jaehyun smiles, languid, releases Taeyong’s hand and reaches up to slip his hand into Taeyong’s hair again, and Taeyong’s mouthing at where his cheek dimples. Smiling against it. 

Taeyong clutches him so close, rocks against him gently, his unblemished clay, moulds him to fit against his body. His hand on his waist, on his taut, muscled abdomen, on his chest, arms around Jaehyun’s torso. 

He’s missed him, that’s what he’s trying to say. Bodies rocking together, and Jaehyun is hard and leaking against the sheet under him. Evening has fallen. The shrill calls of swallows and the distant sound of occasional cars on the hill road. He can ever hear someone chopping wood somewhere on the hillside. Darkness has crept up on the studio. When he twists his torso to get a look at Taeyong’s face and ask for another kiss, he can barely see him, but his mouth is familiar when he kisses him. Lips and tongue and teeth and the taste of him. He’d know it in his sleep.

Taeyong’s getting more forceful now. He must be close.

He pulls out abruptly. He wants to fuck him differently, on his back, he’s laying him out the way he wants, but Jaehyun won’t have it, this time. Taeyong decided that tonight would be a fucking Jaehyun into the mattress kind of night, but Jaehyun doesn’t think that’s where it should end. He drove an hour and a half from Seoul to Taeyong’s studio in Gangchon to see him. He’s going to decide how this goes. 

He pulls Taeyong against him, and he fits between Jaehyun’s thighs, his palms digging divots in the mattress on either side of Jaehyun. He’s watching him, or what he can see of him, asking him in that deliberate pause what he wants. 

He answers him. He wants him. Somehow, in the gaps between a messy, wet kiss, Jaehyun’s hands tangle in Taeyong’s hair, then his shirt, then grasp his throat, then fist against his jeans, and somehow, he’s managed to undress him properly, and when he feels his skin against him, he lets himself bathe in the feeling. Nothing in the world feels quite like the press of someone’s body, the warm staccato of breath against neck, and nothing in the world feels quite like bare skin. He curls against him, palms trailing down his back, toes trailing down his calves. Taeyong’s breath comes quicker, irregular, a sharp inhale when Jaehyun grips his waist firmly and pulls him up. 

He has him straddling his hips now, leaning over him. Jaehyun’s face is cupped delicately in his palms, but his teeth sink into Jaehyun’s lower lip and pull. He whines, low, and Taeyong giggles and turns a bite into a sloppy kiss and Jaehyun feels wet everywhere he’s kissed him, in a diagonal up his neck, his earlobe, all along his jaw, lips and chin. Jaehyun’s blindly probing around till feels the ragged edge of plastic laminate on the tube of lube where they tore the seal off the last week.

He slicks his fingers in a rush, he’s getting impatient. Grips one of Taeyong’s thighs in one hand and reaches over the other with one slippery hand and presses a finger against him. He shudders. Jaehyun traces the bumps of his spine, and Taeyong traces the shape of Jaehyun’s lips.

When he slides his finger into him, Taeyong presses the pads of his fingers against Jaehyun’s mouth, till he opens up for him, too, till the tip of his index finger is tracing the crooked peaks of his lower teeth, and then sliding in deeper to rest against his tongue. His finger tastes like cherry lube.

Another finger into Taeyong, and another finger slips into Jaehyun’s mouth. He tongues at them, watches helplessly hard as Taeyong grinds down on his hand. He wants to put in another, but Taeyong slips his fingers out of Jaehyun’s mouth, grips his chin between slick fingers and thumb and leans over him. Spit pools between his pursed lips and Jaehyun groans, opens his mouth and catches it on his tongue, the first heavy drop of Taeyong’s spit in his mouth, the second on his lower lip, and the thin, gleaming string that connects them together. He sucks on his lip and lets himself taste Taeyong, and then he swallows him down. 

Taeyong’s breathing hard. Another wet kiss, redundant now that he has the taste of him on his tongue, in his belly. 

Jaehyun slips his fingers out, only to fist his length and press it against Taeyong, slide it over his entrance just to tease him a little. He holds him by the waist again, ushers him to lie on his back and wastes no more time. He presses in. Inch by inch he slips inside him, and he can hear his own heavy breathing, interspersed with Taeyong’s. He searches for a rhythm, Taeyong’s breath and his own, Taeyong’s pulse beating against his lips when he kisses his neck, his own fluttering in his chest, the snug, wet slide of him inside Taeyong, and the soft whisper of Taeyong’s hands sliding up his arms and shoulders and neck. All their separate cadences coming together like ripples rolling into each other, converging and splitting anew. 

Jaehyun’s trying to keep himself propped up on his elbows, but Taeyong’s bending him to his will again, arms wrapped around his torso so he’s drawn flush against his chest. He doesn’t mind. He holds him, too, slithers his hands under Taeyong’s back and holds him, nuzzles against the side of his neck and stays there. He digs his knees into the mattress and tightens the muscles in his back and keeps grinding down into Taeyong, rolling his hips into him. 

Taeyong’s length is pressed between their abdomens, leaking against both their bellies, Taeyong’s holding him so tight and so close and the beauty of this is in the fact that Taeyong can mould him however the fuck he wants, bend him whichever way he wants, and he’ll always be warm under his hands, living and breathing and warm, he’ll always hold him the way he’s held, meet him the way he’s met, and Taeyong hasn’t been lonely since Jaehyun came home. Jaehyun knows it.

Taeyong slips his hand between their bodies and Jaehyun lifts himself off as best as he can, leaves him room to pump his length. He’s close, now, he’s clutching at Jaehyun’s back and fitting his chin against Jaehyun’s shoulder and arching against him, so his chest presses against him regardless of the distance he put between their bodies and he can feel, actually feel his heart pound. He can feel his breath fan over his shoulder blade, and he can feel his fingertips pressing into his flesh. 

He comes with his thighs clamping down on Jaehyun’s hips, a shudder and a stuttering gasp, and the head of his length pressed against Jaehyun’s skin. Eager little pulses of warm release, dripping in crooked tracks off Jaehyun’s belly. 

Jaehyun groans when Taeyong grips his hair and tugs, urging him to lift his head and look at him. Lashes lowered and lips parted, the gleam of dying light over trembling wet lips and wet eyes, the shimmer of little droplets in his eyelashes, and the delicate silver necklace he wears pooled in the divot between his collarbones. He can’t look anymore. He kisses him, fucking him through his high, fucking into him even as he’s coming down, Taeyong grips his hair again and pulls him back. Breaks their kiss and drags his messy hand up Jaehyun abdomen only to press those knuckles to his lips. 

Gleaming wet and nearly pearlescent with his release, still warm. He opens up for him again, lets him press his fingers into his mouth again. The taste of him, bitter and sticky against his tongue, has him shuddering, and he’s swallowing his release and coming inside of Taeyong all at once. Taeyong moans at the feeling of it. Those last few thrusts inside him, the slide getting slicker, warmer. He kisses him, still hungry for him, over and over till he comes down, too. 

It leaves him boneless, still kissing him languidly. He shivers with an aftershock, and Taeyong shivers because he shivered and he giggles against his mouth, and Jaehyun giggles because he giggled. He’s combing through his hair, now, warm and affectionate, caressing his hair, cheek to cheek and tangled inextricably.

Jaehyun hates to have to break this moment but he doesn’t want to end up plastered to Taeyong with dried come. He moves, can’t quite feel his hands when he manages to slip them out from under Taeyong. He pulls out. He’s gone soft now, and the sound is so wet, he has to sit back on his heels and look at the mess he made. Taeyong parts his legs and lets him have a look, doesn’t object even when he presses a thumb inside him again only to draw it back out, just to see his release dripping out of Taeyong. 

He presses gentle little kisses to his thigh, even as Taeyong reaches for his discarded shirt. He crumples it up, cleans himself off with it, tosses it at Jaehyun, next. Nonchalant. Like he wasn’t just in tears and clinging to him.

“Missed you,” Jaehyun says. His first words since he got here, and only half honest in that he means it a lot more than he lets on. 

He cleans up, waiting for Taeyong to say he missed him, too. Gaze trained on the cloth in his hand and the remnants of come in his belly button, but listening acutely to the rustle of the sheets when Taeyong sits up on his knees and cups his face. 

He looks up.

But he doesn’t say anything, just kisses him lightly, and hops off the mattress. Jaehyun watches him, at a loss for words. Taeyong’s pulling on his underwear, his jeans, picking Jaehyun’s sweater up off the floor and slipping it on, and it gets him feeling tingly and warm, watching him put some music on for them. Even if he was snubbed just now. He knows that’s not how Taeyong expresses himself. He’s gone and put on Amore.

Taeyong flicks the light on at his workstation. Jaehyun’s eyes sweep over the scene. Crumpled sheets and a tube of cherry flavoured lube, his slacks lying in a heap on the floor. Pale wooden stool and the tabletop covered with plastic. The wheel. The drying rack. The electric kiln in the corner. The bags and jars lining the the high shelves, numbered and labeled in pencil, in Taeyong’s terrible handwriting. Half finished pieces. The bucket with all his tools in it. Wooden blocks and plastic wrapped wet clay, bags more of the dry stuff he gets shipped in. Music. Taeyong. His slim hips and his broad, firm shoulders, his always fragrant hair and the delicate silver necklace he wears that offsets all his sharp angles and all the sinew built over years of working with his hands. 

Jaehyun drives the hour and a half from Seoul to Gangchon most weekends. Some weekdays. And it’s all for this. For this room on this hillside, for this man, for this feeling. 

The first time he came home was the day he sat at a Pojangmacha near the upscale Hagwon he teaches at, watched the mad crowd in rush hour Hongdae. An unwelcome identity crisis and a crushing loneliness later, he was blind drunk and on a train to Gangchon. He’s not even sure how he made it to his family home, a house that stayed locked for years, how he managed to climb into his old bed, how he fell asleep on a mattress covered in dust. But he knows he woke up at the crack of dawn to the sound of knocking, and when he opened the door, Taeyong stood there with a crowbar and an apology and said he saw lights on in the house and he wanted to make sure it wasn’t a squatter or a deeply inefficient burglar or something. Right, Jaehyun said at the crack of dawn, with a hangover headache and little eloquence. Thanks. 

He told himself he wouldn’t stare, at the boy who left him in this town and went off to learn about ash glazes in Karatsu, Japan. The boy he kissed exactly once in his life, the summer before senior year of high school, before Taeyong left for college. He said he wouldn’t stare, but he did, at the boy who grew fourteen years older and still kept the twinkling eyes and kept the petal mouth and lost the uncertainty of teenagers. 

It wasn’t a month before Jaehyun kissed him again, in this studio up the hill from their childhood homes, and he hasn’t been lonely since. 

He gets up, gets as dressed as he can without a shirt, and moves to meet Taeyong. He’s poring over a few tiles. Swatches of glaze to choose from, for the piece that he biscuit fired yesterday. He rests his hands on his shoulders, slides them down his back, and rests them on his waist. Taeyong straightens up in his hold. Chest to back, Jaehyun presses a kiss to the nape of his neck and tucks his chin over his shoulder.

“Which ones?” Taeyong asks. 

He looks down, points at two. An ochre and a bottle green. 

“Old fashioned,” Taeyong says, and he’s smiling.

Jaehyun stamps another kiss onto his skin.

“Will you put it in the exhibit?” He asks. “If I picked out the glaze?”

“Not if it turns ugly in the kiln.”

“It can’t be ugly if you made it.”

“Anything can turn ugly,” Taeyong says. He’s studying the numbers he etched onto the tile, to identify which glaze he used, and he’s jotting it down on a sheet of paper.

“Even me?” Jaehyun asks, coquettish.

“Even you,” Taeyong says, smiling.

Even us, he wants to ask, but he thinks that’s a bad idea.

“What do you with the ugly stuff?” He asks instead. “Do you throw it away? Break it? Gift it to people you don’t like?”

Taeyong laughs. 

“I keep it all the same,” he says. “I love it all the same.”

Jaehyun lets it sink in. “Even me?” He says. Trying to sound like he’s flirting but he means it, he’s serious, he wants to know if he loves him, if he plans on loving him, if he wants to keep him.

“Even you,” Taeyong says quietly. 

Jaehyun smiles, satisfied. Taeyong bends him to his will, treats him with care and respect and awe and masters him, and he rises beautified and brought to life in his hands. And the beauty in this, is that he stays warm under his hands, warm, and living and breathing, and holds him how he’s held, meets him how he’s met, and they’re not lonely anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a half baked (pun intended) mix of ill explored themes and badly written sex. It was written very quickly. I'm sorry if some things don't make much sense. Thank you for making it to the end :D  
> 


End file.
